


Roll the Dice

by the_ragnarok



Series: roll the dice [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Teenagers, roleplaying games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames is their best player, Arthur is dense, Ariadne has a funny hat, Dom always runs the game and Mal wants to play free-form. (Or, the one where they're all in a roleplaying group together in highschool.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll the Dice

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely dremiel. Warning for utter self-indulgent schmoop. Short gaming glossary at the end.

"All right," Dom says, a bit grander than he should. "We are convened."

Arthur suppresses a snicker. Normally he would just laugh – it's good to puncture Dom's ego every once in a while, let the some of the hot air out safely – but it's the last session of their campaign and all right, maybe Dom earned the right to feel important.

"Recap?" Nash asks, because he's a fuckwad who can't even be bothered to remember bringing his character sheet, let alone the plot.

If Dom minds, he doesn't let it show. Mal lets out a sigh, though, and rolls her eyes. Dom ignores her and says, "Last we met, you were facing the Nameless Technomancer in his Cave of Steel. Nash, your character was hit with a freeze ray and is paralyzed for the next two rounds. Mal – " Dom turns to her with a favoring smile.

"I sneaked into his control room," Mal says with a withering smile. "While Beringer held his attention and Foxxly freed the prisoners."

Arthur makes a face at Eames, the way he always does when someone refers to Eames' character by name. Seriously, _Foxxly_? Eames is their best player, the one who always keeps the plots moving, but he can't pick a name to save his life.

Eames replies with a cheerful smile, because he lives to frustrate Arthur. Then he says to Cobb, "Right. Are the prisoners wounded?"

Dom frowns and says, "Roll a spot check," and they're off.

It's a good session. It would have been better if Arthur wouldn't have spent most of it thinking _is this it?_ It's been a good campaign and Arthur sort of misses it already, even before it's technically over.

In particular, Arthur is worried because Nash has made it clear that he won't be joining them again after this. Arthur's not exactly fond of Nash, who thinks being twenty-five makes him knowledgeable rather than an ancient dickhead who literally still lives in his parents' basement, but he's a player. Running a game for three people – well, Dom can do it, but it's just not as much fun.

Not to mention how when there are too few players, Mal and Dom tend to forget that they're roleplaying and start _roleplaying_. Arthur could do without seeing that again. Ever.

It's not like Arthur to be sentimental, but this is the first campaign that they've played through. He's actually grown a little attached to his character, which he never does because it's a silly thing to do.

He makes the mistake of telling Eames that, later, when he's driving Arthur home. Normally Arthur wouldn't give him an opening like that, but Eames said, "You seem thoughtful," and Arthur had to choose between, "I almost liked Beringer," and something even more embarrassingly maudlin.

"He wasn't bad," Eames says, after a moment.

Arthur twitches, because if Eames doesn't mercilessly tease Arthur for what he just said, it's only because he's brewing something even more infuriating. Arthur grimly settles in and waits for it.

"Considering, you know," Eames says, "that he was exactly identical to _every other character_ that you have played."

Arthur scowls. This isn't remotely the first time they've had this discussion. "Just because I don't name my characters after _romance novel heroines_ – "

"First, I took Foxxly from a spy thriller," Eames says. "And frankly I'm disappointed in you, Arthur, generally you check your facts better."

Eames doesn't continue, so of Arthur is forced to prompt him. "And second?"

"Second," Eames says, braking for the stoplight just one block before Arthur's house, the one that takes ages to turn green. "A name isn't all there is to a character." He pauses with attempted meaningfulness. "Unless they are _your_ characters, in which case a name is all the poor things have to distinguish themselves from mindless killing machines."

Arthur's kind of fond of that stoplight. Sometimes. When Eames isn't being a jerk. So pretty much never, actually. He narrows his eyes at Eames and says, "Are you calling me uninspired?"

"Never," Eames says lightly. "I just think you fail to apply yourself."

"Quote your mother to me again," Arthur says, "and I will take you to the range and _shoot_ you. With real bullets. Not paint."

"Promises, promises." In Arthur's opinion, Eames doesn't sound anywhere near sufficiently threatened. Maybe because Arthur has failed to follow through on this particular warning before. Arthur resolves to be more thorough in the future.

Eames is looking at him now. Arthur stays firm for two minutes before saying, "What?"

"You still look pensive," Eames says. "It's not your character and we both know it. Out with it, whatever it is."

Arthur shakes his head. "We need a fourth player."

"That we do," Eames says. Arthur looks at him with suspicion. It's not like Eames to be agreeable.

"You could bring Yusuf." Arthur likes Yusuf, who has a nice, dry wit and a tendency to bring snacks. Also, unlike _certain people_ , he doesn't make a huge deal out of the fact that he's not in high-school.

"He won't come." Eames sounds genuinely unhappy with this. "He doesn't play free-form at all. Says it's an affront to proper gaming."

"We could teach him better," Arthur says. There's a slight unexpected twist to Eames' mouth, so Arthur says, "Okay, what?"

"I'm a little tired of all the drama, myself," Eames says. Arthur manfully restrains himself from snorting. Then Eames looks at him, a little weird. Almost cautious.

"What," Arthur says, flat, when Eames refuses to make his goddamned point already.

Eames asks, "Have you started your driving lessons?"

The light picks that moment to turn green. By the time Arthur's certain of his answer, Eames has already stopped below his building. Eames pulls into park and gives Arthur an expectant look.

"I've been looking at teachers," Arthur says, which really isn't an answer at all.

"That's good," Eames says slowly.

Arthur's heart sinks a little. "Yeah, sorry about that." He runs a hand through his hair. "I promise, I'll have a license and be out of your hair in no time."

"What – oh." Eames gives an incredulous little laugh. "No, it's not that at all, Arthur. You know I like driving you home. Who else would I show my," he waggles his eyebrows, "etchings to?"

That forces a small laugh out of Arthur.

"The reason I was asking," Eames says, "is that I was thinking about our present problem. A fourth player," he clarifies when Arthur gives him the Eyebrow Raise of Confusion. "You've met Ariadne, right?"

"Your step-sister? Sure. What does she – " Arthur's brow knits. "Eames, I know what you're thinking and the answer is _no_."

"Just one session." Eames should know better than to try and bargain with Arthur by now. Arthur stiffens his resolve.

"Eames, she's fifteen," he says. "No."

Eames leans over to look him over pointedly. Arthur swallows – yes, he's only seventeen himself, yes, he started when he was sixteen. But.

"Mal will eat her alive," Arthur says. "Or Dom will drive her insane. You can't bring a fifteen year old to play with us, you'll warp her for life."

After a brief silence, Eames says, "You really don't know her very well, do you?"

"I met her twice." Arthur doesn't roll his eyes, but it's an effort. "She offered me cookies. She's nice. She doesn't deserve the wrath of the Cobb from high atop the dinner table."

"You'll see," Eames says. There's an awkward moment of silence and Arthur debates leaving the car – might be nice, getting home before two AM for once – when Eames gets out of his seat belt and says, "Pass me my notebook, would you, darling?"

And of course Arthur does, because in a small, secret way, this is his favorite part of the evening.

Eames grins at him and flips the pages. "All right, this you've seen, this too, this is bloody hideous –"

"Show me," Arthur commands, and Eames' grin turns sheepish as he gives back the sketchbook. It's a still nature type thing, not Eames' usual style at all, but still pretty nice. "What is this, a daisy?"

"Dandelion," Eames says, insufferable. "Know you nothing of botany, Arthur? For shame."

It's growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. Arthur suspects there's symbolism or something there. "It's not bad," he says, and flips forward.

The next page has – is that a ninja orc? – drop-kicking what looks like a kobold. Arthur smirks. This is more like it. "You've got the armament all wrong," he says, because compliments make Eames roll his eyes, but he thrives on criticism.

"No, see, consider the period and the world," Eames says, and they're off again.

By the time Arthur finally leaves the car, it's well past two AM and honestly nearer to three, and he and Eames have fleshed out another world between them, a society of orc warrior-poets.

"We should write this down," Arthur says hanging at the door, like he always does.

Eames says, "So we should," which he also always says. They never get around to it, but really that's not the point. It's just nice to stay in the car for five minutes longer, huddling close to Eames and dreaming up the society of the Path of Righteous Purpleness. "Shall I walk you to the door?"

Arthur snorts and leaves. He hears Eames' car start behind him, and wonders with a belated pang of worry whether he should've offered Eames coffee at least. It's twenty minutes by car to Eames' house, and Eames yawned twice during the last ten minutes of their conversation.

But Arthur always worries, and Eames always turns out fine. Arthur unlocks the door, takes the stairs home and slides into bed without turning any lights on.

~~

Next Friday, when Eames pulls up next to Arthur's house, Arthur goes for the shotgun seat automatically only to find it occupied.

"Oh, sorry," he says as he climbs into the back seat and buckles up. "Uh, hi, Ariadne."

"Hi!" Ariadne turns to give him a cheerful grin. Arthur's not even sure she should be allowed to sit in the front – she's so tiny he barely saw her there, only her bunny-ear beanie standing out.

Arthur's willing to admit he's being a little petty. So he tried extra hard for a friendly smile. "So Eames talked you into joining us?"

She snorts. "Yeah, more like I wheedled at him to let me come along. I've tried to organize a game with my anime club, but it ended up dissolving into sparkles and yaoi."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Eames says, which startles a laugh out of Arthur.

"Nope," Ariadne says, "but it's kind of weak on the plot front, and I hear Dom Cobb is good with that. So here I am."

"Here you are," Arthur echos, and thinks about last week again. Ariadne would doubtlessly have a curfew; Arthur knows Eames' mother is overprotective of her. Which means that Arthur can kiss his ride home goodbye.

Because Eames took extra points in Psychic Skills in real life, he says, "Don't think I'll be leaving you out to hang, Arthur. I will still take you back after the game, we'll just have to make sure that we're out early enough for me and Ari to make it home by her bedtime." Arthur catches Ariadne making a face in the mirror.

So ride home, yes, but the hours he and Eames had to sit and talk, just the two of them, no time for those anymore. Arthur can't even use the inconvenience of finding his own way back as an excuse for his annoyance.

Crap.

~~

"So." Dom's coffee table has books spread all over it: The entire original World of Darkness collection, a few editions of AD&D, the Game of Thrones book which Eames eyes with longing, and some GURPs books. Ariadne has the Toon! book open in her lap.

Of course, it's all just window dressing. They always end up playing free-form, because Mal feels oppressed otherwise. Case in point: "If I have to roll those wretched dice _one more time_ ," Mal says.

"Complaining again," Dom says, darkly. "All right, new rule. You make me GM, I make the decisions and you don't get to whine about them."

"I could GM," Arthur says, not for the first time. Everybody pretends not to hear him. Annoyed, he clears his throat and repeats, "I could – "

"No," Mal says with an air of finality.

"You make it sound like I'm terrible or something," Arthur says, offended.

"You are," Mal says, because she's a shitty friend and clearly doesn't care about Arthur's artistic vision _at all_. It's pointless to even give her a wounded look, so Arthur gives it to Dom instead.

Dom looks sheepish. "You're not a bad storyteller, Arthur," he says. "But you get...."

"Trigger happy," Mal supplies. "I do not recall one game you ran where my character survived the first session."

"And your NPCs are terrifying," Eames says. "They're likely to make Ari cry."

"Hey!" Ariadne yells.

"They've made _me_ cry," Eames says, and if that's Eames is like when he's trying to be helpful, God help Arthur if Eames is ever difficult.

"Fine," Arthur says loudly. "Then I vote Shadowrun."

Everyone groans. Except Ariadne, who's giving everyone else curious looks. "What's wrong with Shadowrun?"

"Arthur _always_ votes Shadowrun," Eames says.

"It's his D6 fetish," Mal adds, to Dom and Arthur's mutual horror.

"I do not – fine," Arthur says. "Okay, let me guess. Dom, you want to do VtM. Again." The Vampire: the Masquerade book is prominently featured on the coffee table, it doesn't exactly take a genius to guess. "Mal, you want free-form, preferably in some dark, steampunkish universe. _Again._. Eames, you want to play Game of Thrones." Which Eames has lobbied for in all the last three campaigns, but since it never actually got picked, Arthur feels he can be charitable. "Ariadne, what do you want?"

"I don't know yet," she says. "I mean, this looks like fun," she brandishes the Toon! book, "but I'd like something with a little more depth, y'know?"

Mal grins like a shark. "Let me tell you about the wonders of per-campaign worldbuilding," she says, drawing Ariadne aside.

Eames gives Arthur a mournful look. "We're doomed."

Arthur polishes his favorite red D6. "Told ya."

~~

Arthur has to grudgingly admit that Ariande's not bad to have around. For one thing, they're playing within an actual system for once. Granted that system is old-style Changeling, but it could've been worse. And all it took was a combination of Ariadne's puppy eyes and Eames' exhortations that they needed to _Bring Ari up properly as a player, young'uns need stability_.

Ariadne's murderous glare at that rather spoiled her puppy eyes, but it all worked fine in the end. Mal gave a misty-eyed sigh and set up to roll a Sidhe noblewoman.

Arthur catches Eames looking wistfully at a Satyr character sheet, then sighing and picking up one for a Pooka instead. Looks like he's serious in his wish not to corrupt Ariadne. Who promptly undoes his efforts by picking a Sluagh, easily the creepiest character type in the game unless one goes for the external edition stuff.

For himself, Arthur tries to decide between a Troll and a Knocker, settling on a Knocker in the end because apparently Eames finds his warrior characters repetitive. He throws a vicious glance at Eames, who fully ignores him. Arthur only hopes between the two of them they'll have enough fighting power. It would be just typical if they all ended up faffing about while Dom threw weak-ass NPCs at them.

(Arthur appreciates that Dom always GM's, really he does, but it has to be said that Dom's a fucking sap with his players. Granted, Arthur being not-a-sap ended up getting him thrown out of the GM candidate pool, so maybe Dom has a point.)

The first session is just character building and the story introduction, so they end up going home early.

"Just the thing," Eames says, rubbing his hands before putting the keys in the ignition. "Bring you home early to start with, then stretch your curfew all slow-like."

Arthur ruthlessly reminds himself that Eames is talking to Ariadne, and that getting excited because of the way Eames says _stretch_ and _slow_ is creepy as fuck under these circumstances. Probably it's creepy anyway, but until Eames verifies having actual telepathic skills, Arthur will mutinously cling to his filthy, filthy thoughts regarding Eames.

Once they hit the road, Eames gives Arthur a pensive look in the mirror. "Tell you what," he says. "I could drop off Ariadne, take you home, then go back."

Arthur's trying to find a muted way to express his approval of this plan when Ariadne says, "Why would you do that? That's like extra forty minutes of driving for no reason."

She's right. "You drive late enough as it is," Arthur says. "You'll end up crashing the car one of these days."

"Neither of you are my mother," Eames says, more angry than the situation really warrants. There's a momentary frozen silence, then Eames sighs. "Right. I'll just drop you off then, Arthur."

"Right," Arthur says. "Thanks." He hasn't thanked Eames for a ride in months, which is kind of assholish of him, really. But that only makes doing it now feel more awkward.

~~

Because it's early, Arthur unlocks the apartment door and walks into an argument.

Mr. Browning, his mother's boyfriend, paces around the living room. "I don't see why you have to live in this place."

"Maybe because not all of us are CEOs?" Arthur's mother stands in the corner of the room, very still, with her back to Arthur.

"But I _am_ ," Mr. Browning says. "You don't even have to move in with me, I could just help with the rent."

Wrong thing to say, _incredibly_ wrong. Before Arthur's mother answers, Arthur clears his throat. His mother and Mr. Browning both turn to him, startled.

"Uh, sorry," he says. "I'll just go to my room and you can go on. Okay?" Hopefully by the time he gets there his mom will have forgotten Browning's (really, amazingly, stupidly wrong) suggestion, and Browning will have the wits to pretend he never said it. Maybe.

Arthur's not all that fond of Browning, but his mother appears to be, as far as it's possible to tell with her, and she's been through enough crap that she deserves someone to be happy with. Browning wants Arthur's mom to quit her shitty job at the shooting range and move in with him, but so far she's not having any of it. Arthur tries not to get in their way too much.

Getting home early also means there's far too much time before Arthur normally goes to sleep on Fridays. He ends up getting into edit wars on the Wikipedia page for text-based adventures and ends up falling into bed at four AM, feeling like crap.

~~

There's a life between gaming sessions, too. It just doesn't feel like much of one.

It was better last year, before Dom and Mal graduated and they and Eames and Arthur would all hang out together in the shade of the oak tree behind the gym. Eames still smiles at Arthur, friendly-like, when Arthur catches his eye in the yard, but they don't have any other friends in common and Arthur hates to impose.

Part of this is that Arthur doesn't really have other friends. He has study partners, but both he and they are more relieved than anything else when they finish their homework and can go on their separate ways.

It's not that Arthur's antisocial or anything. He had friends in his old school. But he met Mal in his first month here, and making friends with people in his own class just didn't seem worth the effort when Mal and he _got_ each other so well. Then she'd introduced him to Dom and Eames, and before Arthur knew it he was the weirdo who played roleplaying games and never talked to anyone in his own year.

He spends most his recess periods reading in the library. They've got a decent science fiction collection, so there's that.

Then two familiar voices drift by, and Arthur's frozen, uncertain whether or not to raise his head.

"No, I'm telling you they had it," Ariadne says. "Someone probably just misshelved it. C'mon, Eames, you're like the patron saint of lost objects. They turn just to see your smiling face." She pauses. "Or maybe your scowling face, I should say."

Arthur does look up, and what the hell is Ariadne talking about? Eames is practically beaming.

"Yup, there it is," Ariadne says, grabbing the book Arthur's reading and planting a peck on his cheek on the way. "'scuse me, I just need to see – " she rifles through the pages, keeping Arthur's place with a thumb. "Yeah, okay. Are you going to check this out?"

Arthur blinks, shakes his head. Ariadne and Eames are smiling at him in stereo. "No, read it like ten times already. You can have it."

"Awesome!" She starts toward the counter, then pauses, looking back. "Hey, Arthur, when do you finish today?"

"Two periods from now. Why?" Arthur keeps getting distracted by the fact that Eames is like a step away from him. He can hear Eames breathing. And yeah, there have been all these nights in the car, but it wasn't the same. That was safe ground, not _school_.

"You should come home with us for lunch," Ariadne says. "Gale said she wants to feed you."

"It's true, mother does like you," Eames says. Arthur nearly startles at his voice, soft and right by Arthur's ear.

To cover, Arthur says, "Um, sure."

He waits until Eames and Ariadne leave to sink back into his chair in unadulterated embarrassment.

~~

In the ten minutes before Arthur's last class for the day finishes, he makes his peace with today's random blip of weirdness. Ariadne's friendly and a little pushy, but Eames won't let her force his hand. Hopefully, Eames will forget about the lunch idea until he and Ariadne are halfway home, and call to apologize to Arthur.

Arthur's mentally composing his breezy _Sure, of course it's fine,_ when the bell and his mobile ring simultaneously. Thankfully, Arthur's great at multitasking, so he can answer as he packs his backpack.

It's Eames. "Arthur, hey," he says, sounding a little out of breath.

"Hi." Arthur zips up his bag. "So about that lunch – "

"Right." Eames exhales sharply. "Meet us in the parking lot in five minutes?"

Arthur freezes, looking around. "Sure, that's fine," he says, faint.

"Unless you'd rather not," Eames adds, but the line cuts out before Arthur can make any sort of check to see if he'd be a bother. Nothing to do but meet Eames where he specified.

When Eames drives over, Arthur opens the passenger seat door and says, "Hey, did you ask – _umph_ ," the latter noise because Ariadne grabs him by his sweater and pulls him into the backseat with her.

"Ariadne," Eames says with a warning rumble.

Ariadne laughs and pushes Arthur upright, making a show of patting him into neatness. "Stop doing your macho imitation, bro. Arthur, buckle up."

Arthur does, wordless. Also, kind of annoyed that he didn't think to go to the front seat this time. "What I started to say was, does Eames' mother even know I'm coming?"

"Of course," Eames says. "Ariadne called her earlier. She's expecting you. I'm told there'll be chilli."

That's just playing dirty. Arthur's stomach rumbles. Eames' and Ariadne's eyes meet in the mirror, and they both crack up simultaneously.

"I hate you both," Arthur mutters, very quietly because they're nice people who are about to give him delicious food. But he can't exactly let something like that pass without comment.

Ariadne grins. "I can ruffle your hair now, right? Because we're gaming buddies."

"What? No!" Arthur yelps as Ariadne goes straight for his hair. "Get off!" Eames, the bastard, manages to drive even while laughing so hard it ought to make him sick. Arthur hopes he pukes all over the front seat.

~~

They arrive at Eames' house (and Ariadne's, Arthur reminds himself – he should refer to it by their combined last names, except that it's a multisyllabic horror that sounds like something Lovecraft dreamed up) with Arthur's hairdo mostly intact. Sadly, he cannot say the same for his dignity, given how he distracted Ariadne.

"I've let a fifteen year old feel up my dice," Arthur mutters to Eames as they make their way to the door. "I feel dirty."

"Chin up, darling," Eames whispers in return. "I'll polish them up for you later if you want. Kiss all the girl-cooties away."

Arthur's ears turn pink and he mumbles something that he hopes sounds sarcastically grateful.

Gale welcomes them inside with a warm smile. Arthur can't help liking her. She's one of those people around which you instinctively feel at ease. Eames can be that way, too, when he wants to.

(That is, without qualm, the most dangerous thing about Eames. Eames' muscles and his eyes, his mouth, even his talent – yeah, Arthur's thought about those things. Still, there are a million people with pretty eyes and lush lips and capable hands, but Eames has a way of looking at Arthur that makes Arthur feel like he's a genuinely interesting person. Before Eames, Arthur didn't realize anyone could do that.)

"Haven't seen you in ages, Arthur," Gale says while Arthur fills his plate. "How've you been? How's your mother?"

"Fine," Arthur says. He doesn't want to come across as abrupt, but he honestly has no idea what to say after that. "And you?"

"Lovely." She's got dark eyes, unlike her son, and they glint at him merrily. "John's been staying late in the office again," John being Ariadne's father, "but I suppose that's what I get for marrying an architect."

"I suppose," Eames says, and matches her expression so perfectly that Arthur has to chuckle. Eames turns to look at Arthur with an expression that almost seems wounded. "Don't _laugh_ ," he says, in a far too precise imitation of Arthur from minutes ago.

Arthur quiets and drops his gaze, flushing. And this is the problem with Eames – Arthur's almost certain that Eames is kidding, that this is just him being friendly, but it's all but impossible to tell. Eames is _too_ friendly, too outgoing, and Arthur's seen him chumming up to people that he later eviscerated to shreds in private. Eames is one year older but for all the sense he makes to Arthur he may as well have come from another century, from another _planet_.

"The food's delicious," Arthur says, when he realizes everyone is looking at him.

"Thank you, dear," Gale says, and the kindness in her voice makes Arthur want to cringe.

~~

"D'you want a ride home?" Eames says after lunch.

"I'll take a bus," Arthur says, at the same time Eames continues with, "Or I could – "

They both fall silent, looking at each other. "Or you could what?" Arthur says.

They're standing in the back garden, where Gale dragged Arthur forcibly to look at her cherry tomatoes. Arthur admired them duly, and Gale left Eames and he to pick some for the dinner salad.

"I could take you later," Eames says, ducking his head. He looks shy, which is annoying, because Eames never does shy and it only makes him look like a bad parody of Arthur. "If your mum won't miss you meanwhile, you could stay and do your homework here. Stay for dinner. Mother offered."

It's on the tip of Arthur's tongue to say no, he'll just go home, it's fine, but there's no real food at the house. Arthur would have to go shopping if he wanted to eat, and then eat alone since his mom normally ate at work. It's not very appealing.

"Okay," he says instead.

He really doesn't expect Eames' expression to brighten like it does. Fuck, that _does_ things to Arthur, like Eames is actually happy to have him around. Arthur concentrates his attention on the tomato bush.

~~

Eames' room isn't exactly a room as much as a separate unit, with its own toilet and even a kitchenette. Arthur resists making the same lame jokes he does every time he comes here. "When are they going to make you start paying rent?" he says, instead.

Eames grimaces. "Don't bring that up by my mum, thank you very much. I don't even have a proper job yet." He flops down on the bed and pulls Arthur down with him; Arthur goes with a yelp.

"No freaking dignity," Arthur says, burying his face in his hands to conceal his smile. Something in him loosened up the minute Eames closed the door behind them. Because out there – Eames can be anyone he wants, anyone people want him to be. But in him, there's just him and Arthur. Why would Eames need to pretend anything, in here?

"None at all," Eames says, solemn. "Here, that reminds me, let me have a look at your dice."

Arthur laughs but hands his pouch over. His dice are mostly D6s (okay, so maybe Mal's not one hundred percent wrong that Arthur likes them), with two complete standard sets, one in pearly blue-green and one in transparent red. There's a pewter set in the gaming shop downtown that Arthur's coveted for ages, but it costs more than Arthur's monthly allowance.

Eames blows on his dice and rolls them in his palm. "For luck," he says, "like the high-stake rollers."

"Come off it." Arthur rolls to lie on his back, looking at the ceiling. He should do his homework, but he doesn't feel like moving right now. The bed is soft and it smells like Eames.

"Shan't," Eames says. But he puts the dice back in their pouch and drops it on Arthur's stomach. Arthur _oomph_ s, mostly for comic effect. "Hey, have I shown you how the masterpiece is going?"

"Not since – wow, last month," Arthur says. "How long does it take to finish a painting, anyway?"

"The question is," Eames says with a wag of his finger, "how long it takes to do it _properly_. Come on, pay your dues."

Arthur leans up on his elbows while Eames drags the canvas from where it lives beside his closet. He could easily make some cutting comment about Eames' artistic laziness, but while Eames sketches as effortlessly as he breathes, paintings are hard slow work for him. He's complained to Arthur about it often enough.

Eames removes the protective sheet he's thrown over the canvas. "There. What do you think?" It's not Arthur's artistic judgment Eames is asking for – Arthur knows fuck-all about art and Eames knows that. He's asking Arthur for the story.

What Arthur loves about Eames' works is that everything always seem to be moving, everything seems to serve more than one purpose. A fold of fabric is also an opening in a wall, a curl of shadow might be a beckoning finger. Arthur's not great at reading between the lines when actual lines and reading aren't involved, but in Eames' drawings things just make sense.

That's when Eames works with a pencil, though. This is an oil painting, and it's... different. Eames didn't try to work in all the little details he normally loves, going for something broader and more abstract. The background is dark, shades of grey and deep violet, with stark electric blue lines providing points of light within the picture. The last time Arthur saw this, it was uncolored, only the basic sketch of characters and postures within the mere suggestion of a landscape.

This is not what makes Arthur take in a breath. "You drew us," Arthur says, dumbfounded.

Because it's their last campaign's final scene, unmistakable for anything else. The tall willowy wizard at the front is definitely Mal, and that's Nash, the jerk, cowering at the side. The evil mage in the middle, from whose hands the blue lightning erupts, has a strong resemblance to Dom, and that's Arthur at the corner. And near a pile of wailing, almost abstract prisoners, Foxxly's blonde buzzcut and her huge broadsword.

"It started out as something quite different," Eames says, and for once his uncertainty doesn't sound fake at all. "But then there was that scene and we had that conversation, and I got home and had to revise it."

Arthur wants to ask why Eames kept only himself in character, but he doesn't quite dare. Instead he asks, "Is it finished?"

"I wish." Eames traces a careful finger around the outer edges of the canvas, where Arthur supposes it must be dry already. "So what do you think?"

Try as he might, Arthur can't come up with any real criticism. What he normally does when Eames shows him something like that, something _good_ , is come up with a story for it that they can toss between them. But the story for this picture is one they've both been through, and Dom told it better than Arthur ever could.

So he settles for honesty. "It's good," Arthur says. "Really good."

The moment the words leave Arthur's mouth he feels like an idiot. Like his opinion on the subject means anything, like he understands anything about this. Why did Eames even ask?

Except that Eames doesn't look disdainful, or even like he's waiting for something more like Arthur's usual commentary. There's a slow grin spreading across his face and a light in his eyes that Arthur hasn't often seen, but he wants it there all the time. "Yeah?" Eames says.

Then all that goes away, replaced by a careless smirk as Eames throws himself down on the bed, and Arthur hates that. Because Eames can turn his expressions on and off like he has a switch hidden somewhere, but Arthur can't stop himself from grimacing.

Eames turns toward him, and there's a surprised look to him, like Arthur did something unexpected. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Arthur doesn't want to say _nothing_ because that's passive-aggressive bullshit, but he doesn't know how to explain that Eames drives him mad. The state of Arthur's sanity isn't really Eames' responsibility, even if it is kind of his fault. "It's not important," he says instead.

"All right." Eames doesn't move, but he's withdrawing from Arthur just the same. Arthur grits his teeth and wishes it didn't bother him. "But I wish," Eames says, looking Arthur in the eye, a direct hit, "that you'd tell me if I've done something to upset you."

It ought to sounds like Eames is mocking him but it doesn't, sounds almost painfully earnest. Which Arthur know Eames can pull off without an effort, but why would he? Why would he bother?

"I can't figure out why you do anything," Arthur says, half an admission. "I don't like not understanding."

"You could ask," Eames says. "I promise to be completely straightforward. Ask me a direct question, I'll answer." But he's looking away as he says it, twisting his hands in the covers.

"But?" Arthur says.

"Nothing." Eames drops his hold on the covers, hands still and sure. "Just remember that I _will_ answer. So think well before you ask."

 _What the fuck does that mean?_ Arthur wonders. He licks his lips, stalling for time. "Why do you drive me around?" Arthur asks, and his mind supplies the answers. Because they needed another player, because Mal asked, or maybe he's just polite.

Eames blinks. He looks like he honestly didn't expect that question. "Because I enjoy your company. Why would you even ask?"

It feels like a hit to the chest, being told that, because – well, Arthur's not stupid, and he'd hoped. But hopes never work out like that, do they? It can't be that easy. "And the drawings? Why show them to me?"

"I thought you liked them." Eames sounds almost hurt.

"I do." Arthur doesn't have to work at honesty here. "But why do you care what I think?"

"Why do I – " Eames stops, leans up on his elbows so he can look down on Arthur. The corners of his mouth curves up. "You're either incredibly thick or fishing for compliments, and I have no idea which one I find more baffling. Because I value your judgment, Arthur." Then he sighs, collapsing gently to one side. Their faces are very close. "That's not all of it, though. Are you certain you want to hear the rest?"

Arthur's heart hammers in his chest. He tells himself not to be ridiculous. Whatever else Eames has to say, it can't be that bad. "Yeah."

"I like it when you point out the problematic parts," Eames says, low voiced. "And when you start making things up. I like _talking_ to you, Arthur, have you honestly not realized that? Obliviousness isn't very like you at all."

Arthur's breath comes out in a rush. Because he thought, he hoped, but to be _told_ is intoxicating.

It doesn't look like Eames is done yet. "I like listening to you talk," he says, very quiet now, so that Arthur has to strain to catch the words. "And I like looking at your face when you're killing mutant zombie orcs. And when you're doing homework, or reading. Or at any time, really. You've the most appealing focus, did you know?"

"No," Arthur says, lost. Why would anyone think that?

"You do," Eames says, with authority. Then he laughs, a small self-conscious thing that lightens the air a little. "Then again, I'm biased."

"Biased? Why would you be – " Arthur has no time to finish that sentence, because Eames is looming over him, close enough that Arthur can feel his breath, see the minute tremors in his lips.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Arthur thinks. _Don't think about his lips._

 _Come to think of it, don't think the word_ fuck.

But Eames is lowering his face until their noses touch, and he murmurs, "Permission?" If this is a joke, Arthur will kill himself. And Eames. Possibly not in that order.

Arthur closes his eyes. "Granted." And Eames' mouth closes over his.

It's not like any ridiculous metaphor Arthur's read, no fireworks and no flames. Just warmth, a little wetness where Eames' lips are parted, and the touch is very soft. Eames is leaning over him with barely any distance between them, and Arthur can't figure out why even that is there, so he takes hold of Eames and flips them over, letting gravity pull them together.

Eames seems to approve of this – his arms wrap around Arthur, one hand grabbing Arthur's hair, proprietary. "If we're buddies now," Eames whispers into his mouth, "does that mean I get to ruffle your hair?"

Possibly it's oxygen deprivation that leads Arthur to say, "Sure, why not." Or maybe it's just that he wants to go back to kissing.

"Does this mean you'll stop avoiding me at school?" Eames says. His other hand rubs up and down Arthur's back, and it's all Arthur can do not to arch into the touch like a cat.

"I wasn't," Arthur says, even though he kind of was. "I won't. Unless you want me to." He tries to retreat a little, to gauge Eames' expression, but Eames' hold tightens and won't let him move.

"Stop _doing_ that," Eames says. "All right, I'll tell you this once and for all. Until further notice, you are wanted in my vicinity at any possible moment. I want to talk to you and I want to have you around and I want to – " his voice breaks on that, barely noticeable and even hotter for it, "do things to you that I'm not sure I should even mention right now, since I'm still not certain you won't panic and bolt."

Arthur rubs his cheek against Eames, drunk on contact and being silly and he doesn't care. "I don't panic," he says. "I make strategic retreats."

"Not here, you don't," Eames says severely, and kisses him some more.

~~

By the time dinner rolls around, Arthur's lips are swollen and his hair is mussed, and if he leaves the room Gale and Ariadne will take one look at him and _know_.

"I can't go to dinner like this," Arthur says, pawing uselessly at his hair. Eames smiles and nudges Arthur to lean against him, running a comb through his hair. It feels a lot nicer than Arthur would like to admit.

Eames groans. "You think they don't know? This entire week I had to dodge the two of them harping about when I'd ask you out."

Arthur would freeze in mortification, but Eames' hands feel far too nice, one warm on his shoulder and the other in his hair. "Why would they even care?"

"Bloody matchmakers," Eames says darkly. "Well, also they like you. Can't fault them there."

"Dude, stop being nice to me," Arthur mumbles. He can feel his ears pinkening already.

Eames, the bastard, notices. "Darling, are you blushing?" he crows. Which only makes it worse. "That settles it, I _have_ to make you come out for dinner or my mother will never forgive me. You are _adorable_."

"And you are an asshole," Arthur says, squirming when Eames tries to keep him in place.

That ends up turning into a tickle fight, which ends up turning into another kissing session, so that when Ariadne opens the door without knocking Arthur is looking worse than he did before Eames started helping. She takes one looks at them and squeals in delight, running away yelling, "Gale! Gale! I gotta tell you something!"

"Kill me now," Arthur says, shoving his face into a pillow.

"Shan't," Eames says, and cruelly makes him come to dinner, where everyone beams at him through the entire meal.

~~

The nice thing about being Eames' boyfriend is that Arthur gets an undisputed right to the car's front seat when Eames picks him up to the game. Ariadne giggles and kicks from the back seat, but Arthur can endure it. He's strong.

It's weird in the session itself. Eames isn't as demonstrative as Arthur feared (or hoped – he can't quite tell which). He does claim the seat next to Arthur, but he's always done that.

In retrospect, yes, it's possible Arthur's been really dense about this.

Ariadne keeps giving him huge smiles, but she sobers up when Dom puts up his GM partition and says, in his most authoritative voice, "Kinsmen, we are here on a mission of grave importance."

With Ariadne's eyes shining and Mal's rapt look, Arthur can't bring himself to break the mood with a joke. When Eames says, "Yes, lord," it doesn't sound nearly as ridiculous as it should.

It's a good session. Eames and Mal play off each other beautifully, like they always do; they're not entirely immersed in their characters yet, but it'll come. Ariadne does her part surprisingly well, still struggling for a good combination of humor and horror, but Arthur can tell she'll grow into an excellent player with time.

Arthur, well, Arthur picks his combat bonuses well and his dice always go where he wants them. It's like fucking magic tonight, though, and if Arthur was prone to superstition at all he'd think Eames' stupid good-luck kiss worked or something.

When they wrap up Arthur helps Dom clear the plates and pizza box from the table while Ariadne and Mal go off to giggle amongst themselves. Then Ariadne comes forth with an enormous smile.

"Eames," she says, "can I go sleep at Mal's tonight? Gale said I could if you didn't mind. She's going to show me her leatherworking tools!" Ariadne all but bounces in place, talking about it.

"Why would I mind?" Eames says.

Ariadne makes a face. "You have to drop me off? I can't ride on Mal's bike with her."

"Of course, runt." Eames ruffles her hair. She sticks out her tongue at him. Arthur holds back the goofy smile that threatens to erupt.

Mal's house is practically on the way, and after they drop off Ariadne it's only a few minutes before Arthur finds himself alone with Eames, waiting for the light to turn green.

"It's early yet," Eames says, when they've hit the parking lot beneath Arthur's building. "We could..." He loses the rest of this sentence, seemingly preferring to kiss Arthur's neck instead. Which Arthur is normally in favor of, but he hasn't even gotten out of his seatbelt yet and it's kind of awkward.

They kiss over the seat divide for a minute, and Arthur can't even mind the pain in his neck. Then Eames withdraws and says, "Right, how about we go in the back seat?"

So they end up there, leaning against each other and leafing through Eames' sketches. It takes longer now, since they pause to kiss and nuzzle and bite between page turns, but Arthur's already seen most of these, sprawled on Eames' wide bed with his shirt unbuttoned and his shoes off.

It's barely 1AM when they come to the end of the notebook, and Eames looks at Arthur and asks, "Shall I walk you to the door?"

Arthur blinks at him. "Wait. So when you said that, you mean you weren't kidding?"

"Of course I wasn't." Eames bites his jaw gently, affectionate. "So shall we?"

Arthur thinks of his home, of silent darkness and loud voices and uncertainty. It's not that bad, it didn't even put a dent in his good mood all this last week, but the car is lit by yellow crackling streetlights and Eames is warm and near, and Arthur doesn't see why he shouldn't just do what feels _good_ for once.

Arthur puts Eames' sketchbook on the front seat, safely away. "Not yet," he says, lying down to the best of his ability, and he drags Eames down to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> Mini-glossary:
> 
> D6 - Six-sided die.  
> GM - Game master, the one who runs the game. Alternately known as "storyteller".  
> NPC - Non-player character, character controlled by the GM.  
> RPG - Roleplaying games.


End file.
